(no subject)
Title: Sometimes They Didn't Have to Say Anything To Know the Meaning
Author: thesilentpoet
Rating: PG-13/light R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. These lovely boys belong to the brilliant Jonathan Larson, yitgodal v'yitgodosh...
Fandom/Pairing(s):Rent, Mark/Roger (with some mention of various other canon-pairings)
Warnings: Slash, couple mentions of sexual acts, drug use, and some swearing
Summary: Their friendship was simple, it was everything else that was complicated.
A/N: Based on a combination of both play-verse and movie-verse, with some book facts and personal canon thrown in. (Loosely-connected/Companion fic can be found at fuckingartists (direct link can be found here) under my name, or in my memories. Be warned, however. Fiction/fan-fiction on my personal journal is tightly locked - I like new friends?)
Based on the lyrics:
Born a poor young country boy - Mother Nature's son.
All day long I'm sitting singing songs for everyone.
I.
He remembered this song, from long before he was a musician himself. He remembered when he was still in middle school, and he had found his father's old guitar in the attic, next to the boxes of his mother's old records and player. That was when he still got along with his parents, when they still had goals and aspirations for him, and he for himself. He remembered digging through the boxes and finding old songs: songs his father had both borrowed and written. He had spent many happy afternoons up there in the quiet and the dust of the attic, teaching himself to play the guitar, and listening to his mother's favorite songs.
This one was one.
He had been in high school still, a sophomore, when he taught himself to play it as a present for her birthday. She had cried. He had started smoking already, and his father already had started drinking too much.
He had graduated from high school, but never went to college, and even after he and a boy he knew from high school had started the Well Hungarians, his parents had never come to any gig. He forgot his mother's favorite song once he became a rock star, and then in any case, he had met Mark, and April, and Collins and Benny and Maureen.
But sitting here, cross-legged on the floor of the loft apartment he and Mark still shared, there was almost that sense: the feeling of old comfort, and older joy. He recognized this because he remembered the lazy afternoons he would sit exactly like this, cross-legged on the floor, guitar in his lap and with hands curled around the strings, with the sheet music spread around him, and across the floor in an odd-shaped circle. He remembered it because Mark always asked him if he knew songs like the Beatles or David Bowie, and he'd nod, hesitating for stretched moments before the words and melodies flooded back to him.
When did he stop? Oh, yes, he remembered, with a flick of the 'G' chord; right after April had killed herself, and wrote on her bathroom mirror that they had AIDS in red lipstick, and Mark had found him still holding her body, deep into withdrawal, and he had moved into the apartment with Mark again, and still hadn't left.
He still had those moments occasionally, on the nights he and Mark both stayed in, and he'd strum his guitar, and Mark would heat cans of soup and beans on the hot plate Mark's mother had given them, and they'd brew a fresh pot of coffee or mix hot chocolate with marshmallows. Mark would still make attempts to pen his screen plays, and all he'd manage was lines of scribbled notes on the blank measures of Roger's old songs, and he never minded. They'd trade words for tunes, and secretly lived for the contact of when their knees or shoulders would accidentally (or even purposely) bump or brush.
In those moments, he felt like he - they, really - could take over the world, and, perhaps more importantly, survive.
II.
Collins had moved out first. He had fit everything he owned into four cardboard boxes and three milk crates, and piled it into the backseat of the car he had borrowed to drive to Boston. His co-worker, Damien, would drive with him, and then drive the car back. The car was his.
"Are you two together?" Mark had pulled him aside. Roger hadn't been around, and Benny was visiting Allison. Only Maureen and Damian had been around to help.
"No, we're not," Collins had answered. He had found out only the previous month that he had AIDS.
Mark nodded. "Yeah, ok," he said. He grinned, gingerly, and pulled Collins into a tight hug. "Take care."
"You too, Mark, you too. Watch out for Roger, for all of us. Kid's going to get himself killed one day."
"Yeah, sure, will do."
He was still rooted to that spot while Collins hugged Maureen, and climbed into the passenger side of car. "You ok, Marky?" Maureen asked when she finally noticed him.
"Fine."
Roger didn't come home that night, nor the next, or the next.
III.
Benny moved out three weeks later. He and Allison went to Paris for their honeymoon, and Roger arrived with April, both high, to the ceremony and reception.
When Mark caught Roger in the bathroom, he begged Roger to come home, but Roger just laughed, smelling of old sweat, and older grime, although he was clean, his hair mussed to perfection, and his clothes washed and pressed, and when Mark continued to push him, Roger retaliated by slamming him against the wall, hands trapped above his head, and kissing him; hard.
Mark's breath was ragged when Roger finally stepped back, while Roger looked terrified. He all but ran from the bathroom. Mark forced himself to take some deep breaths, smoothed his jacket, and stepped back into the main hall of the country club.
The Greys owned the country club, and when Benny found him, the groom elbowed him, grinning. "Sneaked off with the maid of honor then?"
"No, nothing quite -"
"No need to excuse tradition," Benny interrupted him, "or," he added, looking Mark down, continuing to grin, "personal attraction. Have a drink. Dance."
Roger didn't come back to the party, and April had disappeared too.
IV.
Maureen moved out last. "I just feel like we're two different people, Marky. You understand. I hope we still can be friends."
"Of course," he forced a smile.
Maureen didn't mention she was seeing anyone, and Mark didn't say he knew. Roger was already living permanently at the loft again, but hadn't come downstairs to say good-bye, hadn't said good-bye at all, but had locked himself in his - their - room.
V.
They had shared a room since they had first moved in, back when they still could afford to pay monthly rent. It was before Maureen had moved in, and before Collins, just them, and Benny. It was only two rooms off the main space. Benny took his own. After Collins had moved in, he insisted he was fine on the couch, and by time Maureen had moved in, Roger spent most nights at April's, so there was no argument when she also moved into the room with Mark.
If he came home while she was still there, he joined Collins in the living area, sleeping in the armchair or on the windowsill. Mark would sometimes join them after Maureen had fallen asleep, only to find Roger and Collins smoking a joint together on the couch while Collins graded papers and Roger strummed at his guitar.
"Won't fucking kill you, you know, if you ever tried one." Roger teased one night, grinning.
"I know," Mark agreed. "I just don't feel the need for it to have a good time."
"Afraid, Mark? It's not like you'll lose control if you take a single hit. You might even like it."
"Stop it, Rog."
"Stop what?"
"Being an asshole."
Roger had sat back in the couch cushions, surprised. "Is that how you think of me?"
"That's not - I didn't mean - You're not - I should tell you..."
"Forget it," Roger shook his head. "It's not worth it. I'm sleeping at April's. I'll see you in the morning."
It was only after he was gone did Collins look up. "You shouldn't have said that."
"I know." Mark slumped into the couch. "It's true."
"I know," Collins agreed, returning to his papers.
He didn't see Roger in the morning. Roger would sleep in the armchair on the windowsill still when he finally came back, but usually he didn't, or wouldn't. When he found Roger's at April's, and Roger finally agreed to come home, he moved into the bedroom again, no questions asked, and no fight.
There had always been only one bed.
Maureen was already out, it was just her stuff she needed to come back for.
VI.
There was never any talk of complications. Mimi waltzed effortlessly into their lives. Mark quietly moved into Benny’s old room, and if Mimi suspected, she didn’t say.
If she knew Benny had once been their friend, she didn’t say.
If she knew that on the night before Maureen’s protest, after Benny said his piece, while Roger gave Mark a hand job behind closed doors, Mark kissed Roger nearly senseless up against the door, only to leave to look for Collins, she never said.
If she ever wondered at the looks, which passed between them or at the hugs as natural as breathing, she never said.
And if she was at all curious as to where Roger slept when she came into their lives (and life itself) again, she didn’t ask.
Roger wrote the song for her.
Roger had said he loved her, and she believed him. But Roger had also told her while he saw her in Santa Fe, he came back to find Mark, to not be alone.
She didn’t ask or she didn’t say, but she knew.
She understood.
But she knew it wouldn’t do to say it was because she had Benny.
VII.
There was something. But Mark was still the only one who could ask him to sing, and he would, on request.
Mark, who one night, sat on the couch next to him while Mimi slept in the bedroom, and started to talk about how a production company wanted to produce his documentary and he didn’t know if he should take the offer.
“How much are they offering?”
“That’s not the point, Rog.”
A beat, then: “I know.”
Mark sighed. “A lot.” He caught Roger’s eyes, and he smiled, a slow, wide smile, and his whole face lit up. “Don’t suppose you know the Beatles?”
“Of course. This - this was my mother’s favorite song. I…”
He struck the opening chord.
Born a poor young country boy - Mother Nature's Son
All day long I'm sitting singing songs for every one
If Mark bumped his knee, he blamed it on the close proximity. It was only after the song was over and Mark was teasing him that he was hardly a young or country boy, did Roger grin.
“But you are saying I’m poor?”
“Look around, Roger,” but still Mark grinned. “You do certainly sing songs for everyone.”
“Not every day anymore.”
“No, not every day.” He smiled his smile again.
It was only natural that Roger would bump his knee, or that Mark would tuck the stray stand of hair behind Roger’s ear.
“I hated you as a blonde,” he had said once.
“Me too,” Roger agreed.
VIII.
And if Roger’s hand on his back after Maureen and Joanne’s fight at their commitment ceremony was a trail a warmth, a reason to remain standing, then Roger already knew, and understood.
Author: thesilentpoet
Rating: PG-13/light R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. These lovely boys belong to the brilliant Jonathan Larson, yitgodal v'yitgodosh...
Fandom/Pairing(s):Rent, Mark/Roger (with some mention of various other canon-pairings)
Warnings: Slash, couple mentions of sexual acts, drug use, and some swearing
Summary: Their friendship was simple, it was everything else that was complicated.
A/N: Based on a combination of both play-verse and movie-verse, with some book facts and personal canon thrown in. (Loosely-connected/Companion fic can be found at fuckingartists (direct link can be found here) under my name, or in my memories. Be warned, however. Fiction/fan-fiction on my personal journal is tightly locked - I like new friends?)
Based on the lyrics:
Born a poor young country boy - Mother Nature's son.
All day long I'm sitting singing songs for everyone.
I.
He remembered this song, from long before he was a musician himself. He remembered when he was still in middle school, and he had found his father's old guitar in the attic, next to the boxes of his mother's old records and player. That was when he still got along with his parents, when they still had goals and aspirations for him, and he for himself. He remembered digging through the boxes and finding old songs: songs his father had both borrowed and written. He had spent many happy afternoons up there in the quiet and the dust of the attic, teaching himself to play the guitar, and listening to his mother's favorite songs.
This one was one.
He had been in high school still, a sophomore, when he taught himself to play it as a present for her birthday. She had cried. He had started smoking already, and his father already had started drinking too much.
He had graduated from high school, but never went to college, and even after he and a boy he knew from high school had started the Well Hungarians, his parents had never come to any gig. He forgot his mother's favorite song once he became a rock star, and then in any case, he had met Mark, and April, and Collins and Benny and Maureen.
But sitting here, cross-legged on the floor of the loft apartment he and Mark still shared, there was almost that sense: the feeling of old comfort, and older joy. He recognized this because he remembered the lazy afternoons he would sit exactly like this, cross-legged on the floor, guitar in his lap and with hands curled around the strings, with the sheet music spread around him, and across the floor in an odd-shaped circle. He remembered it because Mark always asked him if he knew songs like the Beatles or David Bowie, and he'd nod, hesitating for stretched moments before the words and melodies flooded back to him.
When did he stop? Oh, yes, he remembered, with a flick of the 'G' chord; right after April had killed herself, and wrote on her bathroom mirror that they had AIDS in red lipstick, and Mark had found him still holding her body, deep into withdrawal, and he had moved into the apartment with Mark again, and still hadn't left.
He still had those moments occasionally, on the nights he and Mark both stayed in, and he'd strum his guitar, and Mark would heat cans of soup and beans on the hot plate Mark's mother had given them, and they'd brew a fresh pot of coffee or mix hot chocolate with marshmallows. Mark would still make attempts to pen his screen plays, and all he'd manage was lines of scribbled notes on the blank measures of Roger's old songs, and he never minded. They'd trade words for tunes, and secretly lived for the contact of when their knees or shoulders would accidentally (or even purposely) bump or brush.
In those moments, he felt like he - they, really - could take over the world, and, perhaps more importantly, survive.
II.
Collins had moved out first. He had fit everything he owned into four cardboard boxes and three milk crates, and piled it into the backseat of the car he had borrowed to drive to Boston. His co-worker, Damien, would drive with him, and then drive the car back. The car was his.
"Are you two together?" Mark had pulled him aside. Roger hadn't been around, and Benny was visiting Allison. Only Maureen and Damian had been around to help.
"No, we're not," Collins had answered. He had found out only the previous month that he had AIDS.
Mark nodded. "Yeah, ok," he said. He grinned, gingerly, and pulled Collins into a tight hug. "Take care."
"You too, Mark, you too. Watch out for Roger, for all of us. Kid's going to get himself killed one day."
"Yeah, sure, will do."
He was still rooted to that spot while Collins hugged Maureen, and climbed into the passenger side of car. "You ok, Marky?" Maureen asked when she finally noticed him.
"Fine."
Roger didn't come home that night, nor the next, or the next.
III.
Benny moved out three weeks later. He and Allison went to Paris for their honeymoon, and Roger arrived with April, both high, to the ceremony and reception.
When Mark caught Roger in the bathroom, he begged Roger to come home, but Roger just laughed, smelling of old sweat, and older grime, although he was clean, his hair mussed to perfection, and his clothes washed and pressed, and when Mark continued to push him, Roger retaliated by slamming him against the wall, hands trapped above his head, and kissing him; hard.
Mark's breath was ragged when Roger finally stepped back, while Roger looked terrified. He all but ran from the bathroom. Mark forced himself to take some deep breaths, smoothed his jacket, and stepped back into the main hall of the country club.
The Greys owned the country club, and when Benny found him, the groom elbowed him, grinning. "Sneaked off with the maid of honor then?"
"No, nothing quite -"
"No need to excuse tradition," Benny interrupted him, "or," he added, looking Mark down, continuing to grin, "personal attraction. Have a drink. Dance."
Roger didn't come back to the party, and April had disappeared too.
IV.
Maureen moved out last. "I just feel like we're two different people, Marky. You understand. I hope we still can be friends."
"Of course," he forced a smile.
Maureen didn't mention she was seeing anyone, and Mark didn't say he knew. Roger was already living permanently at the loft again, but hadn't come downstairs to say good-bye, hadn't said good-bye at all, but had locked himself in his - their - room.
V.
They had shared a room since they had first moved in, back when they still could afford to pay monthly rent. It was before Maureen had moved in, and before Collins, just them, and Benny. It was only two rooms off the main space. Benny took his own. After Collins had moved in, he insisted he was fine on the couch, and by time Maureen had moved in, Roger spent most nights at April's, so there was no argument when she also moved into the room with Mark.
If he came home while she was still there, he joined Collins in the living area, sleeping in the armchair or on the windowsill. Mark would sometimes join them after Maureen had fallen asleep, only to find Roger and Collins smoking a joint together on the couch while Collins graded papers and Roger strummed at his guitar.
"Won't fucking kill you, you know, if you ever tried one." Roger teased one night, grinning.
"I know," Mark agreed. "I just don't feel the need for it to have a good time."
"Afraid, Mark? It's not like you'll lose control if you take a single hit. You might even like it."
"Stop it, Rog."
"Stop what?"
"Being an asshole."
Roger had sat back in the couch cushions, surprised. "Is that how you think of me?"
"That's not - I didn't mean - You're not - I should tell you..."
"Forget it," Roger shook his head. "It's not worth it. I'm sleeping at April's. I'll see you in the morning."
It was only after he was gone did Collins look up. "You shouldn't have said that."
"I know." Mark slumped into the couch. "It's true."
"I know," Collins agreed, returning to his papers.
He didn't see Roger in the morning. Roger would sleep in the armchair on the windowsill still when he finally came back, but usually he didn't, or wouldn't. When he found Roger's at April's, and Roger finally agreed to come home, he moved into the bedroom again, no questions asked, and no fight.
There had always been only one bed.
Maureen was already out, it was just her stuff she needed to come back for.
VI.
There was never any talk of complications. Mimi waltzed effortlessly into their lives. Mark quietly moved into Benny’s old room, and if Mimi suspected, she didn’t say.
If she knew Benny had once been their friend, she didn’t say.
If she knew that on the night before Maureen’s protest, after Benny said his piece, while Roger gave Mark a hand job behind closed doors, Mark kissed Roger nearly senseless up against the door, only to leave to look for Collins, she never said.
If she ever wondered at the looks, which passed between them or at the hugs as natural as breathing, she never said.
And if she was at all curious as to where Roger slept when she came into their lives (and life itself) again, she didn’t ask.
Roger wrote the song for her.
Roger had said he loved her, and she believed him. But Roger had also told her while he saw her in Santa Fe, he came back to find Mark, to not be alone.
She didn’t ask or she didn’t say, but she knew.
She understood.
But she knew it wouldn’t do to say it was because she had Benny.
VII.
There was something. But Mark was still the only one who could ask him to sing, and he would, on request.
Mark, who one night, sat on the couch next to him while Mimi slept in the bedroom, and started to talk about how a production company wanted to produce his documentary and he didn’t know if he should take the offer.
“How much are they offering?”
“That’s not the point, Rog.”
A beat, then: “I know.”
Mark sighed. “A lot.” He caught Roger’s eyes, and he smiled, a slow, wide smile, and his whole face lit up. “Don’t suppose you know the Beatles?”
“Of course. This - this was my mother’s favorite song. I…”
He struck the opening chord.
Born a poor young country boy - Mother Nature's Son
All day long I'm sitting singing songs for every one
If Mark bumped his knee, he blamed it on the close proximity. It was only after the song was over and Mark was teasing him that he was hardly a young or country boy, did Roger grin.
“But you are saying I’m poor?”
“Look around, Roger,” but still Mark grinned. “You do certainly sing songs for everyone.”
“Not every day anymore.”
“No, not every day.” He smiled his smile again.
It was only natural that Roger would bump his knee, or that Mark would tuck the stray stand of hair behind Roger’s ear.
“I hated you as a blonde,” he had said once.
“Me too,” Roger agreed.
VIII.
And if Roger’s hand on his back after Maureen and Joanne’s fight at their commitment ceremony was a trail a warmth, a reason to remain standing, then Roger already knew, and understood.